The Eyes of the Watcher

The Captain of the Guard, a brute named Kaelen, was patrolling the battlements. He wasn't sick. He was strong, cruel, and he had watched from the walls while the Steward starved the village.

It was snowing. The flakes hissed as they hit the torches.

Elian stepped out of the shadows. He wore his old Inquisitor’s cloak, heavy wool stained with the Steward’s blood.

"Who goes there?" Kaelen barked, hand going to his sword.

"Judgment," Elian said.

He threw a handful of blinding powder—crushed glass and lye—into Kaelen’s face.

The Captain roared, clawing at his eyes. He stumbled back, hitting the stone parapet.

Elian lunged. He didn't use a knife this time. He used a spoon—a sharpened, silver spoon he had taken from the Steward’s table.

Kaelen was strong, but he was blind and panicked. Elian tackled him to the icy ground. They rolled, grappling. Kaelen struck Elian in the jaw, a heavy blow that tasted of copper.

Elian snarled. He pinned the Captain’s arms with his knees.

"You watched!" Elian shouted. "You watched them die!"

"I followed orders!" Kaelen screamed.

"So did I!" Elian screamed back.

He drove the spoon down.

It was messy. It was brutal. It lacked the surgical precision of the Steward’s harvesting. This was rage. This was Elian pouring five years of self-hatred into another man’s skull.

When he finally pulled the eyes free, severing the optic nerves with a twist of his wrist, Kaelen had stopped screaming. He was whimpering, curled in a fetal ball on the snow.

Elian stood up. He held the eyes. They were blue. Like his sister’s.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Wonderful," Malphas purred.

Elian spun around. He was panting, his face smeared with blood. He expected to feel horror. He expected to vomit.

Instead, he felt a rush of adrenaline so potent it made his knees weak. He felt powerful. He felt righteous.

He looked at Malphas. The demon was grinning, his teeth sharp and white in the moonlight.

"You enjoyed that," Malphas stated. It wasn't a question.

Elian looked at the eyes in his hand. "He deserved it."

"They all deserve it," Malphas agreed. He stepped closer, wiping a splatter of blood from Elian’s cheek with his thumb, then licking it off. "You’re getting a taste for it, aren't you? The justice."

Elian didn't pull away. He leaned into the demon’s touch. The line between penance and pleasure had vanished.

"One more," Elian said hoarsely. "The Heart of the Traitor. Who is it? Is it the Baron?"

Malphas’s smile widened. It was predatory now.

"Come to the Altar, Elian. I’ll show you."